Cupid's Gun
by tyhyin
Summary: "Even as you are living it things feel off. Like the world is titled every so slightly to the right and you're constantly having to lean so as not to fall off." Nathan/Simon SLASH


Cupid's Gun

Even as you are living it things feel off. Like the world is titled every so slightly to the right and you're constantly having to lean so as not to fall off. When you see that Curtis kid in a club that's more of a glorified cave recognition dawns and is quickly boxed as a half remembered image from TV.

But it's when you see Him that recognition flares in the back of your mind.

The name 'Simon' echoes in your head over and over as the boy's eyes widen at your constant gaze. The colour of his eyes, blue the shade of a cloudless sky and the simple act of how they widen further feed the fire of recognition in the back of your head.

'Simon, Simon, SIMON!'.

Only when he turns away does you brain grasp hold of the information it was struggling for 'He's important!'. Your eyes re-focus and he, Simon, is no longer where he was.

Panic rises in you, the fact that you don't know why loosing Simon is so scary is the scariest thing of all.

The music is loud, the cave walls emphasising the acoustics. It is a very big cave you find out once you've made a circuit of it two times and turn a corner to find a area you haven't seen.

Simon must have left.

Feeling defeat the likes of which you've never felt you lean against a particularly moss covered section of cave wall.

The words "And if Cupid's got a gun, then he's shootin'" bounces of the stone behind you in a melancholy voice. You giggle as you check for bullet wounds.

It's with abject certainty that you know that you're drunk, not as drunk as you could be but nevertheless you not going to find him again.

The song fades behind the noise of men shouting and boots echoing of the stone floor. You open your eyes not remembering why you closed them just in time to see Curtis jet past you. He would have been a blur even if you weren't so hammered.

A second passes and your neck lolls to the side before two men mimic his actions, if not infinitely slower. One of them shouts "Stop Police!" as they barrel past you.

Even as inebriated as you are it is clear that Curtis is running from the police and with that realisation comes the thought that he must know the way out.

Stumbling to your feet faster than you should the world tilts back level again, just for a second and a memory slips through of Simon looking at you and saying something about werewolves. He is wearing a orange jumpsuit. Your mouth twitches at the corners as "Freak Boy." escapes lips that barely register the movement.

As you right yourself and the world is once more tilted you catch sight of one of the men turning a corner his voice growing fainter as he goes.

Feet have never been spurred into action faster than yours when you run after the departing men. As you run it feels like you're going to fall over your own feet but you don't. You think you're running quite well for a drunk person and you ponder the pros and cons of a drunk Olympics before the men, policemen turn another corner.

You're gaining on them but still can't see Curtis, panic rises again but you take solace in the fact that they haven't stopped yet. It's the next second when that before you they run out into a sickly yellow light that can be nothing other than streetlight.

Momentum more than anything propels you after them and it's only the cold chill of the night that finally stops you. If not for that you would have continued after them all memory of what you were doing, Simon lost in the adrenaline of running.

Curtis is a speck on the horizon of your vision by the time you look up, the policemen have stopped.

Breathing is suddenly hard now you're stationary and you draw in deep ragged breaths whilst searching for Simon.

There's a few people huddled around the bin surrounded in a cloud of smoke and you turn away. Simon wont be over there, you don't know how you know but you do, Simon doesn't smoke.

The street either side of you is dotted with Chavs and you're wondering why you even went to this club when you spot him.

You have to squint to see him, he is outside the circle of streetlight but you know it's him.

He is staring back.

Time splinters around you as your eyes lock with his. You can either take a step forward, that's all one step or you can turn around and keep living on a tilt. Simon's gaze never wavers, he stares at you like he is urging you on.

One step becomes two, two become three until you are stood in front of him.

You are still looking at his eyes, the thin layer of water covering them, how they're held open wide so the water wont escape that you miss the way his mouth moves as he whispers "Nathan.".

It's almost too quite to hear but you want him to say it again. He doesn't, he wants you to say something.

You don't know why but "Freak Boy." is what leaves your lips.

Simon face breaks into a wide grin and you don t fight it as so does yours.

The action of smiling broke the discipline that kept Simon's tears at bay, now they are flowing freely down his cheeks like reservoir water released from a sluice gate. The tears are happy you know that but the instinct to touch, soothe them away leaves you baffled.

This is a guy you're are feeling these things for, it's new.

You touch him anyway, a hand on his shirt covered forearm and you feel like a house with all the doors left open so the wind can blow through. You feel airy and new, the world is still tilting unnaturally but now it at least feels like you've got an anchor.

You're staring at your hand gripped around his arm as you hear laughing that tugs at a memory deeper than the others. A memory kept hidden, a memory just for you.

Simon is staring at you face, your lips as he says "You're drunk Nathan.". His voice full of mirth and amusement as his hand comes up to lay over yours on his arm.

You open your mouth to say that him touching you isn't a way to sober you up. It's the best high you ever remember feeling but it's no sobriety inducer.

But instead you hear yourself say "I think I ran pretty well for a drunk guy." and Simon laughs again.

Silence envelops you, blocks the world out as you look at the boy before you.

He is wearing a shirt buttoned right up to his throat, his hair combed to the side, his jaw line akin to carved marble, his ears sticking out ever so slightly and his blue eyes so intense. He is beautiful.

Simon leans forward and you know instantly what he wants but the cold air must have sobered you at least a bit because instead of leaning forward to meet him you use your grip on his arm to drag him down a side alley.

Whereas your sure you could probably take on a few Chavs you don't think Simon could. They certainly wouldn't be happy with what you want to do to him.

You mumble "Chavs." as an explanation before you're pressing Simon against the wall at his back not caring how weird this all is or how fast you're taking it. If a stranger were to see you as they walked past they would be forgiven for thinking that this isn't your first time at kissing another guy.

There is no hesitation on your part and Simon is giving as good if not more than you're giving him.

Breathing out of your nose can only last so long and you're forced to detach from Simon. You smile a little smugly when you see his lips are kiss bruised.

The breath you gain from the momentary lapse in kissing is blown out of you as Simon pulls you into a crushing hug. His head is in the junction between your neck and shoulder, he is sobbing.

You encircle him tighter and murmur words you pluck from memories that are slowly trickling back to you. Words from conversations you recall having with him, words that made him laugh, words that made you want to kiss him. He was so lonely, all the time. It was the only thing he could feel before he met you other than fleeting excitement when somebody included him that is.

He felt invisible.

You both say 'invisible' at the same time and he clutches at your jacket harder. Despite the feelings flying around your stomach like bees in a jar you still don't know, or should it be remember enough.

You think it's the same for Simon but your grip doesn't relent and neither does his.

The chill of the night settles around you both and you are sure Simon must be freezing in only a shirt because to be honest your thin jacket isn't exactly keeping the cold at bay.

You whisper "Do you have anywhere we can go?" into his hair but stumble over yourself to amend the wording when you realise the other ways it could be taken. "I mean so we can you know talk, not fuck. Not that I don't want to. Why did I say that?"

The later being aimed at yourself.

Simon is laughing and wiping his tears away with the end of your jacket. It flits across your mind that you should at least be a tad miffed that he's using your jacket to wipe his face but you're not. It's familiar.

You're just glad his tears didn't freeze to his face which is a very real possibility in such a biting cold.

His arm is still on your back, a hand moulding to the shape of your right shoulder blade. You arms are likewise occupied.

He sniffles a bit and you notice that his nose it turning pink.

"Yeah I live with my parents, we can go back there." he says letting his arm fall from your back.

Your shoulder blade practically screams for the return of his hand.

You are very clearly not feeling drunk anymore.

Simon doesn't move and it's only after you think five minutes of you contemplating his left ear do you realise that he's waiting for you to let go of him. Literally wrenching your hands apart from behind his back you step back raising your hands as if in surrender instantly regretting the sudden movement.

Your body sings for him. He smiles lopsidedly at you whilst taking your hand.

His hand is probably as cold as yours is and he starts tugging you down the alley.

You thank God that you don't have to go back near the club to get to his house because you don't think you could let go of his hand even if faced with imminent violence.

He lives a very long way away it turns out and you ask him who he was going to walk home with. When he doesn't answer you nudge your shoulder into his and say "Come on Si." You are both surprised by the nickname, one in many surprises that night. "No-one, I don't have any friends." he says his face turned towards the ground and his hand in yours going slack.

You feel like such an idiot as the word 'obviously' flashes at you from behind your eyes.

You grip his hand before it can slip out of yours and say "Well now you've got me." with every ounce of emotion your body is feeling, whether you understand them or not. The again goes unspoken.

When you fall into step next to him you squeeze his hand.

For the first time in forever you don't lean to the left as you walk.

When you are finally at Simons door and he is fumbling for his keys you think how lucky you were not to have walked into a lamppost with the amount of attention you were paying the pavement. Something flutters in your chest when you remember that he was watching you out of the corner of his eyes just as much as you were him.

In the hallway you instinctively go to take off your shoes and don't know why. Your mum doesn't mind if you keep your shoes on in the house.

Simon removes his and once you are level again you look at each for an eternity before a mans voice asking "Simon, is that you?" breaks the moment.

Simon says "Yeah Dad it's me, I've got a mate with me." and if you hear implications set into the word 'mate' it must be your overactive horny teenage mind, or not.

To get to the staircase you have to walk through the living room and that is where Simons dad is. The TV is on Channel 4 and you recognise bits of "The Devil's Whore." as you walk through.

Nearly out of the room there is a "Wait a moment Simon, introduce me to your friend." and from behind you Simon groans. When he moves back into the living room you follow him.

Simon gestures to his father with an outstretched hand and you to him with a "Dad this is Nathan, Nathan this is my Dad." You step forward with your right foot and hold out your hand for him to shake. When he grips it and shakes you say "Nice to meet you Mr Bellamy." and you wonder how you know Simons last name.

You feel like you need to impress this man but all you get is a "Likewise." in return.

Recognition swims across the mans face until he blinks and turns back to the TV.

The man is what you imagine Simon would look like if he gained a few pounds and grew a beard.

After that Simon hustles you up to his room as quickly as he can without teleportation technology being involved.

Simon's room is a dark affair even once he turns the light on. There is a bed in the corner next to the window, a computer in the other corner on a desk with an accompanying swivel chair, a set of drawers a wardrobe and planet wallpaper trim following the middle of each wall.

There are boxes with butterflies pinned inside hung up on the wall over his desk. They're familiar.

It the tidiest room you've ever seen.

When you look over at the bed again another memory slips through. One of you waking up with Simon in your arms sunlight filtering through the curtains to turn his skin into gold. This memory is shared between you matching smiles colour your faces.

Simon goes to sit at the desk but you're having none of that, you grab his hand and pull him towards the bed with you. You sit in the way that feels most natural, obvious even. Simon is leant against your chest as your are leant against the headboard.

Maybe not the best sitting position to hash out the details of your shared 'other' life but hey why change a good thing.

Neither of you speak.

Your breathing is loud and Simon is a bundle of solid heat on your chest, it eases your nerves. You don't want to be the one to start talking 'cos Simon is the smart one and even though you remember how you acted before, you don't want him to think you stupid.

"Curtis has only changed time twice so far. The one before this nothing much changed except Gary was with us during the storm and got a power too. He could control people with his mind." Simon deadpanned then shuddered against you.

"It wasn't pleasant."

A memory flares and you drop the subject, tightening your hold on Simon. That Gary was one sadistic bastard.

The silence doesn't hang oppressively awkward like it should but waits patiently for you to break it. But your head can't supply you with anything to say, your memories are just out of reach

They need an image to turn a whispy hint of a memory into a solid one. You sigh and stare out the window.

There is a basketball hoop attached to Simon's neighbours wall. That reminds you of who Simon's neighbour is.

That wanker Owen Richards. You think of the things you'd love to do to that bastard.

Punch his face in mostly but you're creative so you'll work on it.

Unbidden you remember what Simon did to Owen himself and can't help but laugh. Simon turns his head on your chest trying to get a view of your face. You can't stop laughing even though the memory has ceased to be funny.

"What?" Simon says and his eyes are wary but you just smile and laugh into his hair.

"You pissed through his letter box?" you say and then you're both laughing.

Silence reigns again and neither of you try to fill it. Enough has been said, for one night at least.

Simon mumbles "Stay with me Nathan." and you think how there was never a question that you would.

"Always." you say like it's obvious. It is.

You fumble in your jeans pocket for your phone, fingers brushing Simons arse more than once. Neither of you mention it and you smirk everytime it happens.

You ring your mum to tell her where you'll be staying the night.

She does recognize Simon's name but whereas you don't expect "Isn't that the boy you used to date." you do expect more than a "Oh the one who always wore shirts". You take it as a blessing she vaguely remembers who Simon is.

You wake up in the morning with a stiff back and Simon drooling on your t-shirt. You fell asleep still leant against the headboard.

You turn your head and press your nose into his hair.

It feels good, Simon is a steady weight against your chest and your hand has taken up residence on his stomach.

The Sandman isn't yet ready to relinquish control on you just yet so your head meets the headboard again and your eyes shutter closed.

Noises mingle in your head, noises that don't fit in with your dream.

Then there is an almighty crash and your eyes are open and staring at a little blonde woman. Martha, Simon's mother your brain supplies and speaking of Simon the bastard is still asleep.

The thought enters your mind to maybe move your hand away from her sons groin when she says "Nathan?" and you would jump for joy if your weren't otherwise occupied.

You wonder if it would be too wierd to go straight with first names but decide if it is it won't be as wierd as seeing your supposedly straight son in bed, well sat on a bed in an affectionate position with another man.

Besides it's wierd already.

"Good morning Martha." you say.

She smiles and says "Rupert said Simon brought someone home but I didn't dare hope for you." then seeming to remember the two cups of tea that lay in pieces at her feet, tea soaking into the ceam carpet she said "I made you both a cup of tea, a good job I dropped them really I didn't know to put three sugars in.".

She smiles again and so do you, she gave Simon his smile. You remember liking Simon's mum and you're glad she remembers you and how you like your tea.

Her eyes go to the smashed cups on the carpet and you move to help her pick them up but she stops you.

"Don't want to wake him up do we?" she says nodding to Simon on your chest. You both chuckle at how likely it is that anything short of an atomic bomb going off would wake him up.

Martha collects the shards of mug and leaves with a smile and a happy look on her face she didn't enter with.

The sound of Simon's breathing fills the room and you smile.

It may be an unconventional way to start a relationship but you never were all that conventional to begin with.

Simon nuzzles your chest in sleepy agreement. 


End file.
